The Siren
by yumi-maki
Summary: AU, 1960's. On an off chance, Shikamaru meets an intriguing singer and gets invited to her show. What happens when he finally takes her up on her offer and goes? One-shot for now.


**The Siren**

**#1 Roses/Passion or Desire**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.**

**A/N: This story was inspired primarily by Duffy's video for 'Mercy'. I suggest you watch it or listen to the song before or after you read the story.**

_"So what do you do?"_

_A coy, flirtatious laugh and then, "I'm a singer."_

_"What do you sing?"_

_A shrug on her part, "Soul, blues, I've got a bit of a variety."_

_He remains silent. She becomes curious._

_"What?"_

_He shakes his head, "Nothing. You just...don't look the type."_

_"Oh? And what is the type - darker skinned?"_

_He frowns, defensive, "I didn't say that."_

_She shrugs, leans back, "You didn't have to." He doesn't respond so she continues, looking out, past his head to the brilliant blue sky outside, "I like to break tradition, rank, class - all that nonsense."_

_He nods, gives a dry response, "How noble of you."_

_She glances back at him, a mysterious smile on her face, "Why the attitude all of a sudden? I didn't mean anything by what I said - I know how people feel about my music. I just don't care if they like it or not. It's for me, not anyone else."_

_He softens, nods in understanding, "That's good - we should all be like that."_

_She smiles, looks at him through eyes that know more than they let on, "Unfortunately, we don't all have that luxury."_

Someone jostles Shikamaru and breaks him out of his reverie. He frowns but doesn't bother with them, choosing instead to take a look around.

The club's more crowded than it was before, darker, smokier - what a difference a few more people make. He glances at the small bouquet on the counter next to him - it's a bit embarrassing, he'll admit, to have them but he couldn't just come to her show empty-handed, not after all this time.

He turns back to the empty stage as a tremor of nervousness passes through him. How will she react? It's been months since they had that talk and now he's finally worked up the courage to come see her. That's partly why he stopped and picked up the roses - as a peace offering of sorts.

The chatter around him is growing, spilling over, people are practically bursting with excitement. _'She must be good,' _he thinks as he listens to a couple remarks. He doesn't really listen to this sort of music so he doesn't have much to compare her to. '_Perhaps that's for the best,' _he thinks, _'because I'm certainly not going to lie and say I like it if I don't.'_

The lights start to dim and his attention is drawn to the stage once more as several men, band members, he realizes, take their places behind different instruments. A spotlight appears in the middle of the stage - he takes a breath, waiting for her to step into the light.

He hears her footsteps first and then he sees her silhouette, a shadow of the beautiful blonde he met several months before. Finally she steps forward and it's as if he's seeing her for the first time. She's dressed in black tonight, in a long, elegant, floor-length black dress. It's the polar opposite of what she wore at their first meeting but it suits her, he thinks as a wry smile works its way onto his face.

She wraps her long, tapered fingers around the microphone and the band picks up a high-pitched, raucous tune. The crowd instantly moves forward, into the space of the dance floor and then they pause as though waiting for a signal, like puppets on a string.

She opens her mouth and starts to sing, a magnificent, harmonious sound that rolls through the crowd who are now writhing and moving as one in time to the music, coming closer and closer until it washes right over him like a wave in the sea.

He's facing forward now, eyes only on her, already tuned out to everything that's going on around him. Even without the spotlight, he would have been able to pick her out of the crowd, that stunning voice that is similar to and yet nothing like the one she used while talking to him sets her apart instantly.

At the back of his mind now, in the only corner that's not focused intently on her, he mentally kicks himself for not coming to her show sooner. He could have been reveling in this, immersing himself in this voice for months now and he must admit that even if she ignores him or frowns and throws the roses in his face or worse yet, takes the roses and locks him out, it will have been worth coming here just to hear her sing.

The set continues, song by song goes by and every one is more beautiful, more penetrating than the last. Fortunately or unfortunately, she mainly sings with her eyes closed so she hasn't seen him yet but he's so busy enjoying her set that he doesn't have time to feel worried.

Finally the music stops and he wants to cry out like the rest of the crowd in protest. He wonders now why she's not more popular, why she doesn't do more shows - she deserves the recognition, of that he's certain. She smiles and bows, simultaneously thanking and apologizing to the audience as she makes her way off stage.

He jumps off the stool and starts to head over to the back of the stage but it's hard going as he has to fight his way through the throng who are now heading back towards the bar and the couches to unwind.

After a good bit of a struggle and a bit of a tussle with the security, he finds himself standing in front of her door. There's no bright gold star on it like in the movies but he supposes that it doesn't matter - a true star doesn't need a fake, plastic one to feel extraordinary.

He stands there for several minutes, roses in hand, staring intently at that starless door. He thinks that she might be able to feel his gaze, he's staring so hard. Finally, he pushes his flowerless hand in his pocket and turns to go, chastising himself for wasting all that energy just to get back here.

He's only taken about two steps when the door opens and _that voice_ speaks to him, in a tone that's somewhere between annoyed and amused. "And where do you think you're going?"

He turns back to her but before he can respond, she continues, "You don't come to my show for months and now when you finally show up, you don't even come to see me! Not even to say 'hello' or to tell me what you thought of my set. I must not have made much of an impression," she concludes, peering at him expectantly.

He can tell by the look on her face that she doesn't mean what she says, that she's really just fishing for compliments so he remains silent, mulling over his response.

"Well," she pipes up, placing her hand on her hip, "don't you have anything to say?"

A half-smile worms its way onto his face as he shrugs and says, "I take back what I said. You're definitely the type."

"Good answer," Temari says before smiling and beckoning him closer.

**A/N: So the ending - definitive enough? Do you get enough closure? I hope you liked the story. Feel free to drop me a line.**


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